


The Accidental Boyfriend

by ignited



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-31
Updated: 2007-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:51:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignited/pseuds/ignited
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first boyfriend Dean ever had wasn’t his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Accidental Boyfriend

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to **regala_electra** for the beta. Written for **sparkysparky** for **spn_holidays** for the prompt: _Dean's first boyfriend, jealous!Sammy, confused!John, rational!Bobby._ Hope you enjoy it and happy holidays!

 

 

The first boyfriend Dean ever had wasn’t his brother.

 

 

 

—

 

 

He doesn’t keep a list; the wishes pop up as they come to him, like _how about we go here_ or _let’s do this_ or _I’ve always wanted to eat that_ — _(gonna fuck you later, spread you wide)_ —and that’s how it’s always been, this spontaneity mixed in with seriousness, with control and planning. He wipes the come off his mouth with his thumb and forefinger, and just as easy, makes these declarations: that they need dinner or there’s a case they should look at or that Sam’s doing it wrong, _too fast, gotta draw it out_.

They catch each other, in more ways than one, when they’re being too distant, when they’re being too close; Dean cuffs Sam on the back of the head, grunts and squirms against Sam’s mouth, against his arm thrown wide around Dean’s shoulders. At the way their thighs rub, close, in the diner booth.

Sam doesn’t do it all the time, these gestures, though it’s a part of him that burns deep beneath the _take_ and _have_ , Dean knows.

He doesn’t act the same though, not _seriously_ , even when they get mistaken for a gay couple on the latest case, like that hasn’t happened dozens of times. Smiles and lets his fingertips ghost over Sam’s side, settle on slipping into his back pocket, offers a squeeze to one ass cheek as he talks about how Sammy likes _that_ shade of color on the bedroom walls and oh, they match with the color of his _eyes_.

He doesn’t keep a list, no; he rattles off names and places that interest him besides Lisa ( _and Ben_ ), shakes out a name he hasn’t placed to a face in ages, mumbled during the morning hours when Sam was caffeinated, and Dean was sore from the night’s hunt. _Freakin’ abominable snowmen, what the fuck, I think I might’ve pulled something._

Adds, _remember that winter in ’96?_ , and Sam agrees, plies Dean’s mouth open with his tongue, sharp, teeth grazes his lip. Dean elbows Sam in the ribs and scratches his head, hair sticks up this way and that.

 _He was something,_ Dean says, muffled against his fingers as he wipes the spit off his stubbly chin.

Dean doesn’t bring him up again that day, a bullet point crossed out on a list that doesn’t exist.

 

 

 

—

 

 

It wasn’t graceful. Passing glances, stupid jokes, games and food, cars and girls. The same needs and wants. That’s all there is to it. Nothing else. That’s _all_ —

Except where it was _more_ and maybe for a while, he didn’t mind it—

Goddamnit.

 

 

 

—

 

 

November finds Dean knee-deep in mud and proverbial horse shit, ‘cause one bad move and an empty shotgun has him about to be mauled by a bear.

Or a bear _spirit_ , Dean ain’t too sure, doesn’t get a chance to find out when it takes a shot to the face. It dissipates, cold wind that blows and stings silvery, faded particles into his eyes. He sneezes, blinks his eyes up at his father, livid and red even if the temperature is freezing, lowers his smoking shotgun and, well, Dean—

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Dad asks, loads up his gun with another two bullets as Dean takes a moment, two, figures he needs to get to his feet before freaking Bambi follows and takes his ass down, too. “You either shape up or go wait in the car with your brother.”

He helps his Dad take down the last of the spirits, keeps his head low and avoids Dad’s look of disapproval as they load up the car, later, settles on giving Sam a noogie instead.

 

 

 

—

 

 

There’s a point where the switch is flipped, and Sam’s not trailing after Dean any longer, whatever lingering of _my brother’s so cool_ goes out the window, ‘cause Sam barely gives Dean the time of day nowadays. It’s not like he’s actively _seeking_ out Sam—because yeah, Sam’s his little brother and needs to stop geeking it up. Taggin’ along can put a serious cramp in his style—and hell, _doesn’t_ want to, not when Sam’s blowing him off because he’s so freakin’ _embarrassing_ , which, yeah, Dean doesn’t understand.

For a thirteen year old all soft around the edges, Dean doesn’t know most days if Sam’s gonna sprout into something else, the way he’s all slumped over like that, amazing how hard he looks. Looks pissy, too, pulling a face as he rests a cheek in one hand as he stabs at his cereal with a spoon in the other.

“C’mon, Sammy, eat your breakfast. Best meal of the day,” Dad says, voice dry, lifts up his mug of coffee and glances over at Dean, who’s eating his fair share—he made it, after all, eggs, bacon, and toast—and swallows it down with big gulps, scratches at his forehead with a knuckle, small brown bangs that brush against his forehead. Hasn’t gotten a haircut in a while but Dad’s not saying anything, and besides, he looks good. It’s the style. Means he fits in and the less questions, the better.

It’s freaking cold, is what it is, not like anyone’s tossing him too many glances during winter, all bundled up.

“Dad, I’m old enough to come home from drama practice by myself. I don’t need Dean to pick me up.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t. He’s a big boy now,” Dean mumbles through his food, ignores the disgusted look Sam tosses his way; he chews with his mouth open on purpose.

“Dean—”

“I got somewhere to be, anyway,” Dean says, wipes his mouth with his fingers as he pushes his plate forward. “If he doesn’t want me to, that’s fine.”

Dad raises an eyebrow, look unreadable, like it’s half past _fine_ but edging back towards a command. “What ‘somewhere’?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Probably a _girl_.”

And whoa, way to punch up the bitchy, Dean raising an eyebrow at that.

Dad grunts, wistful, adjusts the mess of photocopies in front of him, the latest hunt—and Sam only frowns, his head lowers more, Dean resisting the urge to nudge Sam headfirst into his bowl of cereal.

 

 

 

—

 

 

It’s not a girl, though there are some in shop class, two by Dean’s count, steals a glance after rolling out from underneath an old Mustang. Car’s a beauty, just got a shitty transmission and needs a paint job—and then, twenty minutes later, when he’s elbow deep in her engine, he sees him.

The first thing the guy says, mouth a little crooked, edge of a smirk, is that Dean’s doing it wrong.

He’s a few pounds lighter and a couple inches taller than Dean, this weedy kid in a v-neck sweater and jeans, dirty boots and quaffed back dirty blond hair. His shoulder knocks bony against Dean’s as he pushes near, reaches past with a wrench, grins when Dean grunts, genuine offense. The car’s not his but he’s freaking working on it, and who’s this hot shit kid comin’ over and correcting him, like he’s—

Wrong, is what he is, car rumbles to life two days later, Dean scuffs his boot and snorts, leans an arm against the door edge. “You were right. Wasn’t the transmission.”

And that’s his mistake, gonna get a lowered grade but _Stuart_ , Stuart here, he elbows Dean in the gut and weaves this line or two, puts on the charm to the teacher and Dean gets off with a B minus instead.

 

 

 

—

 

 

He didn’t catch on until later. There are memories buried deep down that he won’t stir up, that Sam _will_ , for him, whether he means to or not.

It took three weeks, when the weather was crisp and the first sight of snow was two towns over, ready to fall soon, _there_. Where Dean was seventeen and Sam was thirteen. When life consisted of his family, cars, girls, and food and here he was, Dean Winchester, protector and badass, all wrapped up into one pretty package. _Too_ pretty, people would say, _Dad_ would say, tell him to cut his hair, to not wear that—and Dean did as he was told. The hair thing, that’s another story—

But it took three weeks for Dean to notice back then, first misstep in a series of many, too goddamn unaware and he _knows_ it, now.

It took him four months after Dean made the deal for Sam to deck him, hard right to the jaw. They were bruised and sore from a hunt, and he shoved his mouth against Dean’s, let his tongue flick against Dean’s teeth, the bridge of his mouth. Deeper, tongue fucked him good, while his hands worked, while Dean’s did too. Dean’s moan was ragged, a bone-deep ache in his voice, arched his back up against Sam’s chest. It started with shuddering breaths as Sam left the indentations of his teeth along Dean’s neck, pressed him up against a wall and said things that Dean doesn’t remember, only the feeling behind them, marked on his skin.

That was the first time. That was four months, after Dean made the deal, and he _knew_ there was an extra shade and layer to just how much he needed Sam, an added twist that Sam responded to in kind, with his mouth hungry and his actions rushed, pushy, _more_.

But back then, before all this, days and days of endless roads and handjobs and fucking their way across state lines, _before_ , Dean was seventeen and Sam was thirteen.

It took Dean three weeks. He wishes it were sooner.

Might be the mark of a Winchester.

 

 

 

—

 

 

“The brunette. The brunette one’s _hot_.”

The slip of skin between his shirt and jeans gets cold, Dean tugs his jacket close, wriggles and hands over the magazine, up and above. Stuart grabs it, holds it lengthwise, legs that knock together, almost kick Dean in the face from his higher seat on the bleachers. They’re near the running track and field, sitting above as the football team practices below, does these drills and runs that they observe. Light rain spatters Dean’s jacket, threaten to make Stuart’s cigarette go more lopsided, the way he sucks it at the corner of his mouth, not lit.

He’s tall, Stu, range-y and could run track, probably while chainsmoking, but loves pissing off the gym teacher, sometimes strolling when they're made to do laps. Could pass off for one of the popular kids with his looks, doesn’t fit the type with his messy hair and raggedy clothes—too much of a dork, or somethin’, has to be. Dean isn’t quite sure because he’s been in this town for two weeks and Stu’s the first and only guy to step up to the plate in terms of friend for a town. Not for a week, not for a month, for _one_ town, because Dean doesn’t know when they’ll head out. Might take a while, given Dad’s taking a break, says it’s best for them, reddened edge of _get your act together, son_ in his voice.

It’s Dean’s own fault he messed up on the last two hunts—junior league bullshit like he’s not paying attention to detail, getting too cocky and ahead of himself—and he says he’s sorry, and Dad tells him that won’t matter nothing if Sam gets hurt.

So yeah, he needs to get his shit together.

“I don’t know. I like the redhead.”

“’Course you do.”

“No. She’s _classy_ ,” he says, turns the magazine as Dean bends, sits up to look. The cigarette falls, bounces off Dean’s shoulder and Dean grabs it, hands it back up. Stuart sucks on his cigarette, tongues it to the corner of his mouth. Two faint flumes of smoke exit his nostrils, from the cold air.

 _She_ is this redhead, coppery red finish, 1966 Pontiac GTO Convertible, blonde— _actual_ blonde, draped on the side of it, short shorts and legs that go on for miles. They’re beautiful, both, Dean agrees, doesn’t mean he’ll ease off his position. The shiny deep brown 1969 Ford Torino wasn’t as glamorous, but he took one look and it would be good enough.

“The brunette, man. She’s reliable,” he says, eyes closed as he does, regrets it as it slips his mouth. Because Stu looks at him and laughs; the little he knows of Dean is enough to know that _reliability_ isn’t highest on his priorities with girls.

But Stu catches on, wide grin as he leans back, flicks away the cigarette, lets it bounce off the bleachers. He says, “It’s ‘cause of your dad’s car, isn’t it?”

“I’m an open book,” Dean says with a smile, lies through chattering teeth.

 

 

 

—

 

 

Drama practice was boring and so was math class, and Sam kept raising his hand to answer but Mrs. Culberhouse kept looking the _other_ way, Sam told Dean afterwards. Sam had the right answers and she went and looked away from him, which sucked because Sam wasn’t sitting in the back goofing off or passing notes. Sam added that he sits in the front, near the windows, next to—

Dean’d paused from his ab crunches and leaned back on his elbows, and nudged Sam in the shin with his sneaker, said, _Wait a minute, dude. Please don’t tell me you sit in the front row._

_It’s easier to pay attention—_

_God, Sammy, you’re such a dork. Remember, you wanna pick up chicks, not scare ‘em away with your humongous geekiness on top of your big melon._

_You’re one to talk. What about that girl you like, Alexa or whatever, you haven’t done anything about her—_

Dean had grinned and _leapt_ , pulled Sam into a headlock, and that ended the conversation, drowned out by Sam’s complaints and smothered and pained laughter resulting from Dean’s prodding, tickling fingers. Better to do that and cover up the tightness to his mouth and how he clears his throat, change the subject, anything—He’d cursed and he laughed, and he kept it up, just smiling. He was good.

Now, in the present, is when Dean clears his throat, in the dark.

_Sam._

_What?_

Dean groans, rolls his shoulder muscle and complains this is the last time he’s going to listen to Sam. The case they’re doing is in Vermont, honeymoon suite, fuckin’ cozy ski lodge and they’re posing as _newlyweds_ , meaning one bed. One bed, and Sam’s length pressed against Dean’s back, half-hard dick in his boxers pressing up against Dean’s ass, arm drapes over his side.

_Yeah, we got one bed, but you keep on fuckin’ cuddlin’ me and I’ll wrench your balls off, swear to God._

Sam grunts, and moans against the back of Dean’s head. _Go to sleep._

 

 

 

—

 

 

There’s a heat that burns through Dean, to the edges and tips of his ears, zips up his coat and brushes his lips against the collar, mouth covered. He’d kill for a fuckin’ beer, warm sort of burn down his throat, not quite used to it, _yet_.

He breathes out smoke and blows into his hands to keep warm.

Gets in and starts the car up, the heating out of action, something Dad didn’t have enough cash to fix in the past month. But the radio’s working fine and it’s playing the last bit of Foghat’s “I Just Wanna Make Love To You” the moment when Stu comes by, settles to wave rather than tap the glass, rolled down halfway.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters, fumbles with the knobs as Stu leans in, raises an eyebrow at the song.

He doesn’t run his fingers over the hood, like so many do, every little trail of fingerprints a mark of annoyance, sets Dean’s hair on end. It’s like Murphy’s law, or something—see a cute kid, you pinch their cheeks, puppy, you try and pet ‘em, car, you drag your damn fucking hands all over the surface and smudge it up, the fuck.

Stu rests his hand on the edge of the car door and roof, easy and careful. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“What’s up?”

Dean scratches the back of his head, looks left and right, observes his surroundings before he looks up at Stu again. “You wanna go out tonight?”

Stu stares at him for a moment, his lips real pale and almost like they don’t exist, the way he pulls them into a line. He shrugs, says, “Sure,” and Dean reaches over to open the passenger door.

 

 

 

—

 

 

It kinda fucks up the system.

Fucks up the _schedule_ , schedule’s a better word for it. Dean and Sam are supposed to have sparring practice at ten A.M., bright and early, Dad had said on the phone as he announced he’d be back, that the case he’d been working on with Bobby was closed. “I don’t want you two slacking off when I’m not around,” Dad said, odd because they didn’t slack off when it came to hunting; Dean had fucked up on the last hunt, gotten ahead of himself and now is when he’s going to be punished for it. Sparring, then running, then whatever else Dad could cook up.

Only Dean shows up half awake; Sam tries to cover for him, for once, doesn’t really do him any good because Dad yells at him anyway for staying out late.

The night before Dean had gone out with Stu, out being a birthday party, for Alexa. He got to second base with one of her friends, an awkward little play for her tits, his hand just resting on her breast for a half hour, mouth slurring a trail against her neck. Stu talked with a couple of people there, sipped bad beer even though he was underage, kept sucking on an unlit cigarette again.

Around midnight, Dean drove him home, hands at ten and two on the steering wheel despite the fact that Stu had his arm draped along the length of the seat, nudging Dean’s shoulders, and his thigh close and warm against Dean’s own.

Then they watch a movie at Stu’s house, his own parents asleep, and _Spartacus_ is on. They _have_ to watch it, Stu says, eyes half open, little too excited at the thought. And they do watch it, Kirk Douglas doin’ his thing and Stu’s kind of—kind of falling asleep on Dean, head on his shoulder, breathes out a little loud, not quite snoring. Dean glances at his watch and he knows he’s gonna get hell for this later, that it’s past time and Dad—and Sam, strain of worry, tries to hold it back—will let him have it.

He tries to pull away from Stu and tells him he’s got to go, but Stu groans a little, pulls back and falls into Dean, closer, and okay, Dean’s gotta break off hard before he gets drool on him. He pulls Stu’s arm and hand away, gets up as Stu’s grabbing blindly, eyes still shut as he gives this moan sleepily.

Dean sneaks in at two in the morning, almost busts his arm when he crawls in through the bedroom window, having climbed a tree up to the second floor of the house they’re renting.

So he’s bleary eyed for sparring practice, and Dad makes sure he learns from it, not taking ‘no’ for an answer when he makes Dean run an extra mile by the end of the day.

Sam narrows his eyes and wipes the sweat off his face, gives a little shrug as Dean takes off again, sneakers pumping hard against the pavement.

 

 

 

—

 

 

The one time he goes to pick Sam up, Sam’s already outside the school building, shifts his weight a little as he talks, holds the straps of his backpack tight. There’s some boys, some girls, clutches of kids—and Dean knows that’s weird, knows he shouldn’t think of them as _kids_ ; that he’s just four, five years older on average. Thinks that, briefly, before he punches Sam on the arm lightly as he comes up behind him, gets a scowl in return.

“Hey, Sammy. You ready?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” he says, rolls his shoulder and pushes away from Dean. He makes this face that Dean catches out of the corner of his eye, little bit of an eye roll and a full body shrug, this weight that settles on his shoulders momentarily. _My brother_ , the bane of my existence, god knows Dean did the same. Sam’s friends—two guys, one stringbean of a girl—wave their goodbyes as Sam and Dean walk down the block. Dean follows, cuffs Sam on the back of the head.

“Dude. You mind tellin’ me what’s with the cold shoulder?”

Sam mumbles, edge of a whine that Dean knows equates to, “nothing.”

“Spill it, dork.”

“Why’re you _here_.” He says it like it isn’t a question, sticks his jaw out a little and keeps looking around, like he’s checking his surroundings. Keeping up this thing, not wanting to be seen with Dean, and the act’s getting old pretty damn fast. “I totally covered for you the other night. Where _were_ you that you came back so late?”

Dean shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, waving them out. “Hanging out. Watchin’ a movie. With Stu. What, did Dad say anything?”

Sam frowns. “No. He, uh, he didn’t. Think he was tired.”

“Huh,” Dean says, licks his lips and looks away from Sam. “All right.”

But Sam’s carrying on anyway, saying, “You _owe_ me.”

“What, and wanting to see what tricks my little brother’s pulling with the ladies doesn’t count? People would cut their right arms off for _me_ time.”

“Name three.”

Dean scowls, but they’re walking now; he scratches his head, not sure what to do with his hands. “I saw you lookin’ at that chick. Bet you she helps at the library. Looks the type. You like the disciplinarian type, don’t you, Sammy?”

The tension to Sam is leaving, little by little, flares up when he snaps, “She’s just one of my _friends_ , jerk.”

“Yeah, well, for all the buddies you got, you’ll always be stuck with me, pal. Don’t forget it,” Dean says, slips his hand round Sam’s shoulder in a mock shoulder hug. Sam groans and shoves Dean off, lets his bag go with it—and Dean’s grumbling, picking up the backpack, says he’s better off carrying a bag of rocks, much less nerdy textbooks. At least you can throw rocks at people. Books, not so much.

Sam looks all pissy when they get back, and Dean chalks it up to it being the girl’s fault.

 

 

 

—

 

 

They hang out during shop class and after school, this easy sort of camaraderie that they fall into, always bantering.

Stu likes to draw a lot, weird shit and good shit, quality’s kind of average—he says he wants to be a comic book artist, or an artist, or like, graffiti things, he just likes to use his hands. “In a lot of ways,” he says, eyebrows quirk up. He draws in class on his notebook, on walls, on bathroom stalls, on his hands, too, which Dean doesn’t get.

“That’s ‘cause you got, like. Girl hands.”

“Shut the fuck up. Bitch,” Dean had said in response, got Stu laughing at him as he crossed his arms and snuck a peek at one hand five minutes later.

Sometimes Stu draws too, scribbles weird swirls and lines along the photos, scratches into them and chips the surface. Dean likes the drawings most of all, ‘cause they’re ragged and etched, same strokes over and over, fuzzy outlines. He’s not an _artiste_ , he says, draws shit like girls and tits, and cars, and guys like action heroes—nothing Dean recognizes, though they did have an argument once over who was cooler, Steve McQueen or James Dean which, no fucking contest, McQueen. He drew a cartoon of Dean once and ripped it off the top of his notebook page, passed it over—Dean wielding a blowtorch, mouth and smile too big for his face. It’s the closest thing Dean’ll ever get to a picture of him in ‘the field’—blowtorch in shop class ain’t too different than burning bones—and he sticks it on his headboard.

He gets really good at air hockey, despite Stu’s stupid advantage with his arm length. And Stu learns a couple of tricks from Dean when it comes to pool, game stuff, and how to hustle people at pool—which he couldn’t resist, Dean picking up twenty bucks off Stu before he knows it.

“Shit. You hustled me,” Stu says, and if it isn’t for the knowing smirk, him saying that would sound pretty fucking stupid. His mouth scrunches a little at one corner, this lopsided, thin line.

Dean shrugs his shoulders, pool cue in one hand. “Gotta be fast, man.”

“Oh?” Stu says, and he raises his eyebrow, waves his hands palms out. “Then teach me, Obi-Wan.”

“Lameass,” Dean says, and he gets Stu at his side and behind him for a half-hour, kid constantly shuffling his weight from either foot, like he’s got ants in his pants. Dean says, “easy, easy,” and tells him what to do, what to say.

Stu’s hand rests on Dean’s elbow. “Like this?” he asks, gets a nod, and he leaves his hand there for a couple more seconds.

Thing is, at the time, Dean doesn’t really notice.

 

 

 

—

 

 

And Sammy, in all this, doesn’t give two shits that Dean’s got himself a buddy, ‘cause hey, he’s got his _own_ friends. Who are _normal_ and don’t burn evil skanky corpses for a living. Which, whatever, his loss.

Sam’s mouth is tight when he asks where Dean’s friend is. “He’s like everywhere you are,” he explains when Dean asks what’s the big deal.

“You gettin’ jealous?” Dean asks, waggles his eyebrows and doesn’t look up from what he’s doing: sharpening one of Dad’s knives, smooth, controlled strokes.

“No,” Sam says, tapping a long, thin box of Oreos in his palm, like it’s a mallet or a bat, something. He stands in the kitchen and looks over from his spot near the cabinets. “It’s kinda weird, Dean.”

Dean opens and closes his mouth, then thinks the better of it, shakes his head instead. “Dude, what’s it to you?”

“You don’t really…” Sam trails off, starts to open the package. “Make friends. A lot. Not _close_ ones. I mean—”

“That’s ‘cause I got _you_ around, all the time, don’t I?” Dean asks, and it comes out clipped, blunt, more than he wants it to. He sneaks a glance up and Sam’s jaw’s clenching a little, a tell that Dean knows is gonna set off an argument—if they’re not around each other, it’s arguing, because that’s what they _do_.

“Just—Forget it,” Sam says, drops the box on the counter and slowly starts to leave the room, like he knows if he’ll rush out, Dean’ll say something.

He might.

But Sam moves back, grabs the box of cookies and off he goes, mumbles and mutters under his breath, face all pissy, Dean knows, barely looking up.

 

 

 

—

 

 

So maybe it was kinda weird. Not his fault. He had a lot of stuff on his mind back then, which, fine, that excuse doesn’t fly more than ten years down the line now. Problems at seventeen are a drop in the bucket at twenty-eight—Dad’s dead, Dean’s got this contract hanging over his head, Sam might be a little _off_ , and that’s not even thinking about god forbid something happening to his baby, the car. Back then, though, the friendship slipped into his life all easy and _good_.

 _Warm_ , too, only thing warm in that cold town, having Stu around.

Sam was shooting him like fucking laser-vision one Friday night, complained that they were being too loud, that he couldn’t do his homework. Dad had _loved_ Stu—kid called him, “Sir,” firm handshake and everything, complimented the car, too.

So he let them have their run of the TV, and Sam was the one muttering and going into his room.

 _I can’t concentrate_ , he’d say, this teenage whine that shifts into a deeper voice, slight groan.

This time, it’s Dean jerking off on the bed, long, slow pumps, draws it out, doesn’t fucking care if Sam’s squirming in his seat at the other end of the room, on the laptop, probably looking at porn for all Dean knows. Sam says it again, repeats, and up he goes, already there, nudges Dean’s thigh with his knee, and he says, rough, _Let me finish that for you_.

 

 

 

—

 

 

Dad didn’t say a word about Dean’s friend, more like he didn’t know enough, this uneasiness to his mouth like he _wanted_ to say something, but he wasn’t sure what.

He takes Dean out on a simple salt and burn a few towns over, glances at him a little more than usual, like he’s testing the waters. The salt and burn goes off well, some little missteps, but Dean’s back on form, enough that he’s pumping his fist and crowing after—‘til Dad claps him on the shoulder, says, “Good work, kid. Don’t get cocky, all right?”

Thing is, what does that say about Dean that he’s thinking about that bit of advice being from _Star Wars_ , and if Dad’s Han Solo, does that make him Luke Skywalker?

And man, no offense to the badass Jedi, but he’s not gonna be freaking _Luke_.

It figures it takes something like that to make him get on track. ‘Cause if anything, he’ll leave the bitching to Sam.

 

 

 

—

 

 

Bobby comes by a couple of days before they’re set to head out, that wide eyed look under his baseball cap as he finds Dean and Sam wrassling in the living room. It’s the kind of fight that starts up for who knows whatever reason, doesn’t matter by the time they’re five minutes into it, more grunts and curses than anything. Dean’s got an advantage, ‘cause Sam’s just beginning to get a little height now, reach in limbs that he doesn’t know how to control yet. He shoves Sam off him and declares himself the winner, grins from ear to ear, but Sam just grumbles and gets up, pants, says hello to Bobby.

Dean tells Bobby that Dad’ll be back, just went to the store for a half-hour.

“Then Dean can go on his _date_.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean growls, reaches over to cuff Sam on the back of the head, but Sam ducks, edges down the hall. “I’m gonna kick your ass again!”

Sam sticks his tongue out and shakes the hair out of his eyes, and he _laughs_ as he walks away, this sound that’s suddenly grating on Dean’s nerves. Has him stepping forward before Bobby puts a hand on his shoulder, firm.

“Easy there, Dean,” Bobby says, takes his hand away as Dean snorts and crosses his arms, uncrosses them because that’s what freaking _Sammy_ would do, the little—

“You got a date?” Bobby asks, and Dean groans.

 

 

 

—

 

 

So Stu wasn’t the first, and Sam wasn’t either—honor goes to some guy in some dive, southern state, lots of ‘s’s there that roll off his tongue, pliable, just as easy as it’d been to wrap his mouth around the guy’s dick. Dean was looking to get laid then, didn’t quite manage all the way as he was drunk, and he could barely do a decent job much less take it up the ass.

He’s not gonna say Sam was his first; knowing him Sam would pull some lovey dovey shit and give him extra bags of ice after a hunt or share more food. The _extra_ wasn’t too bad of an idea, but he’s not—he doesn’t look at this like _that_ , like they’re, like they’re boyfriends or anything.

He comes and goes, and Sam does too, sometimes; the details and story of _her_ and what they did the night before doesn’t get so explicit after Sam and Dean have started this thing together. Dean will get Sam pulling a face, rolling his eyes, stuff like that. He claps Sam on the shoulder and gives him an encouraging thumbs-up when it’s reversed. That’s how they work, and it’s fine that way.

 _A guy my own age!_ he’d said to Bobby as an explanation back then, after Sam walked away, _Who's cool! And he likes Dad’s car, and loves playin’ air hockey, man, and movies, too. And? He buys me food. Awesome!_

‘Course, the food’s at the movies, two long hours in a theater, and _maybe_ Stu had punched him a couple too many times as he laughed at the screen, tugged on his jacket, fingers gripping.

 _When any one offers to buy you candy at a movie, Dean, that's a date,_ Bobby replied matter of fact, and it figures it took Bobby, not even looking at him, looking through some papers Dad left out, to nail it right on the head.

Always right, Bobby. Years later he insults them and tells them what to do before they start this present case, names, addresses. Little things that’ll matter in the long run.

He glances at Sam now, the same Sam that’s all grown up, looking at Dean, the kind of gaze that makes the tips of Dean’s ears burn; he coughs and clears his throat in saying thanks.

Bobby nods and doesn’t look up from what he’s doing, same kind of manner with them _both_ now, like he always seems to know everything.

 

 

 

—

 

 

It’s not clear when things break off; only break there is, is a literal one, when they’re getting ready to move. Sam gets a nasty bout of the flu a couple of days before, whines and moans off the scale, keeps saying it’s _demonic_ , and that Dean _owes_ him, again, this time for covering for his _boyfriend_. It’s not fair for him to pull that kinda stuff, especially ‘cause he’s sick and Dean can’t bring himself to smack him, even if Sam’s all disgusting and wiping his snot all up and down his pajamas sleeve.

There’s less complaints when Dean gets him soup and a comic book, the latest _Green Lantern_. He tells Sam he’s keeping the _Catwoman_ comic he bought for himself; when Sam doesn’t protest, Dean raises his eyebrows, says, “And you say _I_ have a boyfriend. Hope you have fun with Mr. Hal Jordan, Samantha.”

Sam wriggles in the bed, all rolled up in his seats, like he’s five again. He bites his lip, worries it while Dean’s waiting, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Um. I—I’m sorry. Okay?” Sam scrunches his face and rolls over in the bed, all fussy, leans on his elbow and looks down on at the comic. “Thanks.”

Dean shifts his weight from either foot on the floor, floorboards all creaky, like yeah, make this any more awkward. He nods, a little too much on auto-pilot, head bobs up and down.

Sam’s flu starts to get better by the next day, and when Stu comes by, Dean meets him by the door.

“You wanna hang out?” Stu asks, simple, hands in his pockets.

“Nah man, I can’t,” Dean says. Jerks his thumb over his shoulder, adds, “My brother’s sick.”

“Oh.”

Dean doesn’t say, _we’re moving_ , because he told him a few days ago. He clears his throat and says, “Look, I’m not. You know. I’m not.”

Stu narrows his eyes, one, two seconds before his eyebrows shoot up. “ _Oh_! Oh. Okay. That’s—wow. I’m, uh—”

“Yeah, no, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

They shake on it, end up laughing too, like it’s a joke to tell over a couple of beers, loose limbed and leaning.

 

 

 

—

 

 

Years later, they don’t drive by the same town again because that’d be too fucking easy. It’s in Portland, actually, in some grocery store when Dean’s leafing through a comic book, these ragged lines and strokes familiar, style nagging at him that he recognizes, but doesn’t check the name of the artist. Sam states, matter of fact, that Portland’s one of the top cities for comic book artists, and look at _all_ the comics here, Dean, there’s other ones _besides_ superheroes.

_Yeah, lots of artsy bullshit. No thanks, dude._

Sam shrugs. _Wasn’t that guy you were friends with—wasn’t he like an artist or something? That he wanted to do comic books. You know, we can stop and see if he’s—_

Dean lowers the comic and clears his throat, little rough, makes Sam stop short, especially when Dean’s shoving his lips up and close against Sam’s own, smack of his lips. He shoves the comic back on the rack and hustles Sam forward towards the cash register, makes him almost drop the load of junk food and toiletries.

 _You never got it_ , Dean says, breathes close against Sam’s collar, lips barely brush and kiss his jaw as he touches his shoulder.

The cashier doesn’t blink twice, some customers milling around take notice, don’t say anything, but Sam’s too wide-eyed and open mouthed _surprised_ for Dean to notice anyone else.

 _You keep your mouth open any longer and I’m gonna have to find somethin’ to stuff it with,_ Dean says, snatches a Snickers bar out of Sam’s hands. He’s got it half in his mouth when he adds, _Three guesses what, and the first two don’t count._

Sam only shakes his head, and this time, it’s his turn to look red around the ears.

_end_


End file.
